Penance Poem by Joan Pond

I don”t miss your touch,
your house,
or the mouse you caught in your trap.
It was upside down and dead.
A grey puff of head under a wire.
You complained it ate the cheese,
and you”d have to re-load the trap.
It”s tiny pink hands,
as an aborted child holding on
for dear life.
You simply shucked it out the door.
I left shortly, thereafter,
still mobile.
Feeling somewhat trapped,
in this purgatory or hell.
Why couldn”t I tell you,
I felt just like that mouse?